“I know. Thanks for caring so much.” I squeezed her hand. “See you later.”
“Actually… could I use your washroom quickly? I think I’m going to run for a couple of miles now.”
“Sure.” I tried not to let on how winded I was as she followed me to my house. I bounded energetically up the stairs to the porch trying to give the impression that I, too, could run a couple of miles if only I weren’t so busy. About to put my key in the lock, Jane halted me.
“There’s something in your mailbox.” I could hear her lifting the brass lid and extracting it, but I was too frightened to turn around. Please just be the mail… all bills even… please.
“What is it?” I asked, casually as I continued to open the door.
“Look.” It was a small rectangular box, professionally gift-wrapped in gold paper with an enormous red bow. Damn that Javier! Damn him all to hell!!! I should never have left the house. “I saw the ribbon peeking out,” Jane said, excitedly. “Who’s it from?”
“It’s from Paul,” I said, smiling beatifically. “I had a feeling he was going to surprise me like this.”
“Well… open it!”
She followed me inside and, slipping our trainers off, on into the kitchen. “I think I’ll wait until he gets home,” I said, placing the box on the counter.
“Don’t be silly. If he wanted you to wait until he got home, he’d have given it to you himself. It’s got to be jewelry,” she continued, gleefully. “What’s the occasion?”
“It’s our anniversary,” I lied.
“Your anniversary’s in August.”
“Not our wedding anniversary. Another date we celebrate… it’s sort of… private.”
“Oh! Aren’t you two romantic! Open it. Open it!”
I feared she would never leave if she didn’t get a glimpse at the contents. Removing the tiny card and tucking it into the pocket of my hoodie for later, private viewing, I began to tear off the paper.
“Hurry,” Jane said. “I have to pee.”
When the flat silver box was unwrapped, I began to remove the lid. Hopefully, Jane would attribute the trembling of my hands to anticipation. What was revealed was not jewelry. It was an iPod.
“The new iPod!” Jane cried. “Nice.”
An iPod? Javier had bought me an iPod? It didn’t seem to fit. He’d started out with pressed flowers and cutesy notes, and moved onto sensual body products. As cool as it was, an iPod just didn’t conform to his romantic gifting pattern.
“This is even better than my one,” my friend was saying as she removed the gadget from its box. “You’ll love it, Paige. You can store ten thousand songs in here and multiple play lists. I don’t know how I ever worked out before I got mine.”
“Great.”
“Let me see…” she pressed the wheel on the front. “He’s put some songs on here for you.” I made a frantic grab for it, but it was too late. “What?” She brought the tiny screen closer to her eyes. “These are all Spanish songs.”
Now the gift made sense. If I could read Spanish I would undoubtedly find that they were all highly romantic love songs.
“Oh! Paul’s so sweet,” I said, reclaiming the iPod. “It’s the anniversary of our first trip to Mexico.”
“Oh…” Jane sounded mildly puzzled.
“It was a really special vacation… the first time he… told me he loved me…” I smiled demurely.
“I had no idea Paul was so romantic,” Jane said, impressed. “I’ll just use your ladies room and be on my way.”
While she was in the bathroom I hurriedly removed the card from my pocket and tore it open.
Beautiful music for a beautiful woman,
J.
Just when I thought he couldn’t get any cheesier! I mean, did women really fall for this stuff? Had Karen fallen for it? Then I noticed, at the very bottom of the card, more tiny handwriting.
I must see you!
Chapter 27
When Jane had left, I sat down on the couch and stared at the tiny card. I felt sick, physically sick. My life was slipping out of my control and it was only a matter of time before it all blew up. For the first time, I felt just the slightest hint of… fear. Was Javier becoming obsessed with me? Could I be in danger? I had always felt at ease in his presence, completely safe. But what did I know about hanging out with murderers? One thing was certain: Javier was more tenacious than I had realized. He was certainly not like a very attractive pimple that you could just ignore and it would go away. He was more like some nasty rash that refused to disappear without medication.
Adding to my angst was the fact that I hated lying. I didn’t just hate it—I truly believed that it caused cancer. Now, I found myself entangled in a web of deceit. How long could I keep up this charade? How long could I keep Paul and Jane apart? They were bound to run into one another and the whole thing would unravel. Paul would say, “Hey Jane. Thanks for the chocolate-flavored body mousse you bought for Paige. Yum, yum!” And Jane would say, “Chocolate-flavored body mousse? What are you talking about?” Or, Jane would say, “Hi, Paul, you romantic devil, you! I’m so impressed that you bought Paige an iPod loaded with Spanish songs to commemorate the first time you told her you loved her in Mexico.” And Paul would say, “What? The first time I told her I loved her was drunk at the campus bar at D.U. What are you talking about?”
And what was I supposed to do with this iPod? I couldn’t just throw it away, could I? It was worth a lot of money. And it could store up to ten thousand songs! And it could finally be the catalyst to get me to start exercising! If Jane saw me out power-walking she would certainly wonder, where is her fabulous little iPod? I didn’t want to arouse her suspicions. Oh, what was I talking about? I couldn’t keep it. It was a gift from a veritable stalker. It was loaded with romantic Spanish love songs intended to make me think fondly of the aforementioned stalker. Maybe if I deleted all the romantic Spanish loves songs, I could keep it?
I knew what I wanted to do with the iPod. I wanted to drive down to The Old Grind, throw the door open wide and stalk to the back counter. When Javier turned around, looking all gorgeous and delighted to see me, I would throw the box at him. “Take your stupid gift!” I would scream. “You may have ruined Karen’s life, but you’re not going to ruin mine. Stay away from me Rueda,” I would growl, threateningly. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.” This, of course, would be foreshadowing for when the police told him I’d provided them with his DNA.
But I knew I couldn’t do that. Portman had warned me to keep my distance from Javier, and I had to agree it was for the best. Perhaps I could donate the iPod to a women’s shelter or a club for street kids? Someone should get some enjoyment out of it. A glance at my watch told me my decision would have to be put on hold. It was time to go pick up the children. Hurriedly placing the card on top of the device, I returned the lid to the box. I would hide it in the back of the linen closet until I could figure out the best way to dispose of it.
Life went on as normal for several days, aside from the fact that I could virtually feel myself developing a peptic ulcer. Portman did not call. I was beginning to fear that he never would. The green straw with Javier’s trace saliva was likely languishing in some landfill by now. Troy probably told me it was in the lab to appease me, and then planned to stall me indefinitely until I lost interest. Unlike Javier, this avoidance technique would probably work on me. I was already feeling incredibly defeated.
No one seemed to notice my general malaise, which only served to intensify it. That is, until Saturday evening. I was loading plates into the dishwasher after our evening meal when my daughter appeared in the kitchen. She had just emerged from the bath. Her hair was wet, pasted to the sides of her face, and she was wrapped in her yellow, terry-cloth robe. “Hi,” I said, as she rounded the corner. “Are you all clean?”
“Yep…” She was looking at me strangely, a wide grin splitting her features.
“What?” I felt a little paranoid. Was she laug
hing at me? Did I have something on my face?
But my eldest child moved toward me and gathered me in a gigantic hug. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too, honey,” I said, a little warily.
Her wet head was still pressed to my chest as she continued to speak. “I know I was acting like a spoiled brat about the karaoke machine. I’m sorry.”
“It-it’s all right.”
“And I don’t even want my belly button pierced anymore.”
“I’m glad.”
“And you’re not the meanest mom in the world. You’re the nicest mom in the world.”
“And you’re the nicest daughter…”
She released me. “I’m going to do some singing practice in my room for awhile. Or do you need some help cleaning up?”
“Uh… I think I’ve got it under control. But thanks for asking.” She skipped happily back upstairs.
I walked directly to Paul’s office where he was working on a proposal or a presentation or something for next week. “There’s something wrong with Chloe,” I said.
“What do you mean?” He swiveled around in his chair.
“She’s acting really, really strange.”
“What’s she doing?”
“Hugging me, telling me I’m the nicest mom in the world, offering to clean the kitchen.”
“Christ!” Paul stood up. “I’ll go talk to her.”
“She couldn’t be into drugs already, could she?” I asked worriedly. “I’ve heard that ecstasy makes you act very sweet and loving.”
“Don’t worry,” Paul said, bounding up the stairs. “I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
When the kitchen was clean I put the kettle on and made a cup of Serenity herbal tea. Paul had still not returned, but I was sure he would summon me if he suspected our daughter was on ‘e’. I flicked on the TV and put my feet up on the coffee table, immersing myself in the umpteenth season of American Idol. It wasn’t until the episode was over that my husband appeared in the living room.
“I put the kids to bed,” he said.
“Thanks, hon. What’s up with Chloe?”
“Well… I think she found her Christmas present.”
“What?”
“In the linen closet,” he said, moving to sit beside me. “She found this…”
Holy shit! Oh, my God! Fucking fuck, fuck, fuck!
Paul began to remove the lid from the flat, silver box. “You didn’t tell me you were getting her an iPod. It’s a little extravagant for a ten-year-old, don’t you think? She’s thrilled, though.”
Oh, help! Please! I silently begged for an earthquake, a car to crash into the formal living room, a twister… anything to postpone or prevent what was about to happen.
“Wow,” Paul said when Chloe’s supposed Christmas present was revealed. “This is really nice. A guy at work has a—” He stopped, noticing the card. “What’s this?”
I didn’t know what to say. I was frightened, mute.
He opened it, taking in the missive and the impassioned plea at the bottom. I had expected him to explode, to scream and yell at me for my obvious betrayal, but his voice stayed calm—which was actually worse in a way. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s not what you think,” I said, my voice quaking. “Please… let me explain.”
“Yeah…” he said, coldly. “I think you’d better.”
“Okay…” I said, taking a deep, ragged breath. “I’m going to start at the beginning. It’s kind of long, so please hear me out. But first let me tell you that I’m not having an affair.”
“Good.” There was no relief in his voice.
“Karen was.”
“Karen was?”
“Yeah… well, at least she told me she was.”
He was quietly angry. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? Don’t you think the police need to know this?”
“They do know.”
“Oh. So you’ve been talking to the police and you haven’t even bothered to inform me? You complain that we’re not connected, and then you keep all these secrets from me. What the hell is going on with you, Paige?”
Tears had sprung to my eyes. “I’m sorry. I handled this badly, I know. But please… let me start at the beginning.”
And I did. I began with Karen’s confession and how she’d sworn me to secrecy. I explained how, after she died, I had wanted to protect her reputation and Doug’s feelings, so I kept her affair hidden. I explained how I met Javier at drawing class, how I found out Karen was pregnant, how the police received an anonymous letter… I told him that Karen’s baby wasn’t Doug’s and that I’d provided the police with a green straw with Javier’s DNA on it. I told him everything—except of course, my own attraction to Javier. That was irrelevant now, anyway. At this point, the mere thought of Javier was sickening. And I had never appreciated what I had with Paul so much. In that moment, I knew how precious my marriage was: not perfect, not thrilling, but incredibly precious. If I had jeopardized it by playing Cagney or Lacey or whichever one was skinnier, I would never forgive myself.
“I don’t blame you for being mad,” I said, tearfully. “I was stupid. It all got out of hand.”
“You were stupid,” he said. “And I am mad. You invited a possible murderer onto our doorstep.”
“I didn’t invite him…,” I began.
“You’re the reason he’s been here, to our home, at least three times. God, Paige. Don’t you care about your family? Your children?”
“I do!” I wailed.
“And what if he had hurt you? How do you think that would affect the kids and me? It would destroy us.”
My sobs could no longer be held in check. “I screwed up. I know… I’m such an idiot. But please… Paul, I love you and the kids so much. Please forgive me.”
Almost grudgingly he took me into his arms, where I wept inconsolably for at least ten minutes. When my tears and snot had soaked through his shirt, Paul gently pulled away. “Listen to me,” he said, gripping me firmly by the shoulders. “From now on, we’re going to handle things my way.”
‘O-o-okay,” I blubbered.
“I mean it, Paige. This amateur detective act is over. Do you understand me?”
“I-I do.”
“Good. Now, why don’t you go have a nice warm bath and then get to bed?”
“Will you be joining me?” I asked, hopefully. His new take-charge attitude was a real turn-on!
“Later,” he said, gruffly. “I’ve got some phone calls to make.”
I slept more soundly that night than I had for months. My deep slumber could probably be attributed to emotional exhaustion, but I also felt a tremendous sense of relief. With Paul’s involvement, the burden of Karen’s secret had finally been lifted. In the morning, my spouse still seemed disgusted with my behavior, but he was not overtly hostile. I pussyfooted around the house, making pancakes, ironing Paul’s shirts, and playing with the children so that he could work in his study, undisturbed. At this stage, he didn’t seem open to a huge display of affection, but I hoped to subtly convey my appreciation.
But Monday morning brought an end to the cold war. At six-thirty, when Paul would have normally been leaving for the office, he phoned in and said he’d be working from home. I wasn’t sure what to think: Paul never worked from home. Did he feel I needed to be watched, in case I started playing detective again? Protected from my extravagant gift-giving stalker? Or did he really just want to work on his proposal or presentation in the relative quiet of his home office? I didn’t ask. Instead, I focused on delivering my children to school in a timely manner.
When I returned, Paul was on the phone in his study. Quietly, I went into the kitchen and began to clean up the breakfast dishes. After a few moments, the audible murmur of his conversation ceased and he called my name.
“Coming!” I called back, still contrite, scurrying to meet him. When I was in the doorway, I smiled sweetly. “Yes, honey?”
He swiveled in his chair to f
ace me. “I just got off the phone with Ed Alahan.”
“Okay…?”
“He’s a lawyer friend of mine.”
“Oh…”
“We’re going to take out a restraining order against this Javier guy,” he stated. “Ed’s bringing some forms by. You’ll need to fill them out and then he’ll help you set a court date.”
A restraining order? A court date? Was that really necessary? I mean, Javier had only left some bubble bath and an iPod on my doorstep, not a decapitated rabbit or something.
“Gee… I don’t know if that’s—”
Paul’s formidable expression stopped me short. “I’m handling things now. Don’t even think about arguing with me.”
“Okay…” I said meekly. “So, uh… do you feel like—I don’t know—going upstairs and lying down for a while?” His forcefulness was making me so hot!
“Ed will be here in half an hour,” he said, coldly, turning his chair away from me.
Ed Alahan was a nice-looking Indian man about my age. He sat with me as I filled out a number of forms, stating my name, age, address and the nature of my relationship to the defendant (Javier). What was the nature of my relationship to him? Unrequited crush? Model and artist? Deceased friend’s boyfriend? I decided the last one was the most accurate, and the most incriminating. Then I was asked to provide an incident checklist, providing the approximate dates and details of my disturbing encounters with Javier. When the list was complete, it looked so… benign.
Dec. 6, Defendant leaves iPod loaded with Spanish love songs in petitioner’s mail box.
Dec. 2, Defendant delivers a basket of sensual body products and leaves it on petitioner’s doorstep.
Nov. 10, Defendant leaves pressed rose in mailbox with card requesting petitioner meet him for coffee.
Nov. 8, Defendant shows up at restaurant where petitioner is dining and lures her into his car. Defendant drives petitioner to secluded parking lot to talk to her, before returning her to restaurant.
There was really nothing sinister about our interactions. In fact, except for the last one, all Javier had done was drop a couple of gifts off on my porch. That didn’t make him a stalker, did it? It just made him… overly generous. What judge would grant a restraining order for that? Ed sensed my concern. “Don’t worry…” he said, kindly. “The list will have more impact when it’s placed in context. In court we can explain that this man was the lover of your murdered friend.”
The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom Page 24
